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Yon antient prude, whose wither'd features thow She might be young some forty years ago, Her elbows pinion's close upon her hips, Her head erect, her fan upon her lips, Her eye-brows archid, her eyes


gone astray
To watch yon am'rous couple in their play,
With boney and unkerchief'd neck defies
The rude inclemency of wintry skies,
And fails with lappet-head and mincing airs
Duely at clink of bell, to morning pray’rs.
To thrift and parsimony much inclin'd,

yet allows herself that boy behind ;
The shiv'ring urchin, bending as he goes,
With Nipshod heels, and dew drop at his nose,
His predecessors coat advanc'd to wear,
Which future pages are yet doom'd to share,
Carries her bible tuck'd beneath his arm,
And hides his hands to keep his fingers warm.

She, half an angel in her own account,
Doubts not hereafter with the faints to mount,


Though not a grace appears on strictest search,
But that she fasts, and item, goes to church.
Conscious of age she recollects her youth,
And tells, not always with an eye to truth,
Who spann’dher waist, and who, where'er he came,
Scrawld upon glass Miss Bridget's lovely name,
Who stole her Nipper, fill'd it with tokay,
And drank the little bumper ev'ry day.

temper as invenom'd as an asp,
Cenforious, and her every word a wasp,
In faithful mem'ry she records the crimes
Or real, or fictitious, of the times,
Laughs at the reputations she has torn,
And holds them dangling at arms length in fcorn.

Such are the fruits of fanctimonious pride,
Of malice fed while flesh is mortified.
Take, Madam, the reward of all your pray’rs,
Where hermits and where Bramins meet with

theirs, Your portion is with them : nay, never frown, • But, if you please, fome fathoms lower down.



Artist attend

your brushes and your paintProduce them-take a chair-now draw a Sainti Oh sorrowful and sad ! the streaming tears Channel her cheeks, a Niobe appears. Is this a Saint ? Throw tints and all away, True piety is chearful as the day, Will weep indeed and heave a pitying groan For others woes, but smiles upon her own.

What purpose has the King of Saints in view ? Why falls the gospel like a gracious dew ? To call up plenty from the teeming earth, Or curse the defart with a tenfold dearth? Is it that Adam's offspring may be fav'd From servile fear, or be the more enslav'd ? To loose the links that gall'd mankind before, Or bind them faster on, and add still more? The freeborn Christian has no chains to prove, Or if a chain, the golden one of love; No fear attends to quench his glowing fires, What fear he feels his gratitude inspires.


Shall he for such deliv'rance freely wrought, Recompense ill? He trembles at the thought : His masters int'rest and his own combin’d, Prompt ev'ry movement of his heart and mind; Thought, word, and deed, his liberty evince, His freedom is the freedom of a Prince.

Man's obligations infinite, of course His life should prove that he perceives their force, His utmost he can render is but small, The principle and motive all in all. You have two servants-Tom, an arch, sy rogue, From top to toe the Geta now in vogue ; Genteel in figure, easy in address, Moves without noise, and swift as an express, Reports a message with a pleasing grace, Expert in all the duties of his place : Say, on what hinge does his obedience move? Has he a world of gratitude and love ? No, not a spark—'tis all mere sharpers play: He likes your house, your housemaid and your pay; G 2



Reduce his wages, or get rid of her,
Tom quits you, with, your most obedient Sir-

The dinner serv’d, Charles takes his usual stand,
Watches your eye, anticipates command,
Sighs if perhaps your appetite should fail,
And if he but suspects a frown, turns pale ;
Consults all day your int'rest and your ease,
Richly rewarded if he can but please,
And proud to make his firm attachment known,
To save your life would nobly risque his own.
Now, which stands highest in your serious

thought ? Charles, without doubt, say you--and so he

ought; One act that from a thankful heart proceeds, Excels ten thousand mercenary deeds.

Thus heav'n approves as honest and sincere, The work of gen'rous love and filial fear, But with averted eyes th’omniscient judge, Scorns the base hireling and the Navilh drudge.


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